Sword and Song
by wkz
Summary: A singer without a voice. A sword with a soul. A villain of status wanting what is his. Hordes of Process chasing them down. Secrets and organizations prodding them along. What's the big secret, causing two separate dimensions to hound these two? Why is it in the hands of these unlikely souls? What, exactly, is the Transistor? A Worm(world) Transistor(storyline) short story fusion.
1. Start() 1

**Start()**

**1.0**

I… where am I?

Oh, right. I'm still here. Stuck in this.

She's there, my brave girl, holding on, in more meanings than one. Betrayed and homeless, by people with too little compassion, too much ambition, too little kindness and too much cruelty. Driven away by those she still care and cared, plummeted by those who had threatened and framed, unforgiven by those who protect and serve.

Funny bedfellows, her opponents.

It's not her fault. It never had. Doesn't change things. She's still a victim. A strong one, as odd as the statement may seem.

The light rain continues to fall on Capitol Hill. The view is breathtaking. The contents, not so much. Brockton Bay was a rotting town. Brockton Bay is a dying town. It shows; from the distance we see the unkept look of half the town's buildings and the abandoned collapse of an entire district. Too little of its pedestrians are moving with purpose, too little of its traffic is new or well-kept.

Seems nothing but bad fate has happened here, and on that good people did some pretty bad decisions; driven to anger, dragged by fear, they forgot about what they should treasure. And so they crippled its economy, killing its future in the process. Villains were lured in, outnumbering the heroes on the streets at least two to one. And those in true power hate both sides just the same.

Place's a mess. Only Endbringers can make it worse.

It's perfect. We'll fit right in.

I've heard of some good people trying to make it better, arrest the slide. I wish them luck, but I hold out no hope. After all, I've spent nearly all my life trying to make things better by everyone. Look where it brought me.

A cranky soul beside a broken bird.

I see her standing there. I know that look, the pose, those slumped shoulders, the lack of expression.

What little drops of tears she manages to shed from her eyes is lost before it can make any impact, washed away by the larger flow of rainfall on her face.

Appropriate really.

"Hey," I said, "Cheer up. Help's down there. All you have to do is to walk in, dodge the cops and find the Palanquin.Gregor's down there, he'll remember you. He'll think of something."

As usual, she does not reply. I've caught her humming from time to time, so I know her voice's still all right. But sometimes, I wonder. Wonder if on top of everything she lost her hearing, or worse. Sometimes I wonder if she simply refuses to hear my voice.

Then again, I know she chooses not to reply to anyone. She chooses not to talk at all.

I know why. I know she's afraid.

If she has her way, it'll stay that way forever.

Not on my watch.

She closes her eyes. The little moment of melancholy is over. I feel my spirits lift as it always does when I watch her transform, once more the brave confident woman. Nobody will recognize her from the scared, broken girl just now.

We walk into town, she and I.

Or rather, she walks, and I get carried in.

"Hey Paige," I quip as she slides my prison back between her and her jacket, hiding the tinker sword from sight, "Ever heard of Fugly Bob's?"


	2. Start () 2

**Start()**

**2.0**

"Watch out. Guy in the corner, looking at ya."

She didn't flinch, didn't even look.

She just glances in the other direction.

To everyone else, she is window shopping. To her, she is looking at a reflection.

Smart girl.

"That man's bad news. Trying to stay hidden, standing at an alleyway, rough and suspicious. Sure as hell he's setting up an ambush. Get away. No matter what, turn to your right, and walk away."

And she turns… left? She turns left. Dammit.

"There's fights. And there's stupid fights. Don't pick a stupid fight. Please. Turn right. Walk away."

She continues on her path.

Sigh.

Guess I am right about the other too. Man's a ruffian. Scruffy, mismatched, dirty, he wears unkept like a badge. And he's out looking for trouble.

No sooner does she walk by, he reaches out, grabs an arm and pulls her in.

Sniggers in the shadow of the alleyway. He has pals too. Similarly unkept. Mirrors of thuggery. They share the colors on their clothes too.

Shit, they're in a gang. And Brockton Bay's gangs are nothing to scoff at.

"Paige!" I shout.

I need not have worried.

There is a burst. My prison flares.

My girl takes out the sword from where she has hidden it, slowly, gracefully. She has all the time in the world. In this unmoving world. A parallel world of blue dots, white buildings and dark green. More blue appears, lines drawing themselves on the ground, sometimes sprouting orange tracers.

In the real world, it is over in an instant. Five kidnapping ruffians fall to the ground.

She takes a deep breath. The tinker device continues to flare, transistor lines on its surface burning as it recovers.

"Stupid!" I shout, anger following relief. "You do not want to fight. You do not want to attract attention to…"

She interrupts me.

"Practice. I need more practice."

I know her meaning the moment the last word leaves her lips.

"Paige Mcabee, you do not need to do this. You're free. I've set you free. Sing. Enjoy life. Settle down. Be free."

But I know the lie in my words. I know her. I know her opponents.

With them out there, she will never be free. With my prison in her arms, they will never leave her alone. She will always have to run… or fight.

Sorry. 'And' fight. I have to face facts. Fighting is inevitable.

Maybe she's correct after all.

"Never mind," I say, "I remember this place. Palanquin's up ahead."

She nods, hides the sword once more.

Together, we leave the alleyway.


	3. Start() 3

**Start()**

**3.0**

Palanquin.

Sixth hottest spot in town. Faultline's current headquarters.

Gregor's residence.

Almost doesn't recognize the place. Not without the queue, the nighttime crowd. Daylight does the place no favors.

With no hesitation, she walks to the entrance. Uses the knocker built on the door. We wait.

Another round of knocking. No response.

By the fourth time, I throw in the towel. "Let's go for lunch. They'll be back later."

She takes my suggestion on the sixth. Wordlessly turning away, she walks down onto the sidewalk, towards Kings Street.

The way she walks; confident, and I dare say regal. She looks like she owns everything in sight. And she feels professional too. Maybe a bit too much. Almost scornful, cold.

I still remembered seeing her the first time, in person. The lightshow was blinding, the distance of the cheap seats far, but I managed. She was singing one of the favorites. Sensual, inviting, alluring, strutting, she matched her song, yet another of hundreds about love and lovers.

I know her, I am with her. I almost cannot connect her then to this person, walking towards the business district.

Neat trick.

Not one of mine. My trade is to make a client more personable. Not disguises through acts.

Remembering the past, I recall another.

Where I first spoke to her, face to face.

The small room was well lit. But it was spartan. So impersonal, it might as well be a dungeon. The chains on her arms and legs completed the look. She was scared, afraid, guilty, frightened. She shrunk into herself. Hiding, away from me, away from the world.

I'm glad I rescued her from that.

I'm so glad.

We are now in King's Street. And I forgot; it is a bad place to be.

The business crowd storms from their towering bastions of concrete and glass, flooding the few eateries we see in long, time-consuming queues.

We move onwards.

It is a long walk. But we finally find a place.

Heh. We actually find ourselves in Fugly Bob's.

Her burger arrives. I laugh at her expression, as she experimentally lifts a patty. She almost speaks, even.

By context, it will be a swearword.

As much as I hate to say this, it was good she didn't; most swears are sexual, did you notice that? Swearing, with her powers?

There are too many teens in here.

Brrrr…

We exit from the place, her hunger unsated. Her lunch was only the fries, and…

She tenses up.

Huh? I follow her sight.

Oh shit.

Ohhhh shit.

The white bastard's just standing there. Mocking us. Warning us.

Declaring to us, by its mere presence.

The Processes are here, in Brockton Bay.


	4. Start() 4

**Start()**

**4.0**

She does not hesitate.

The Tinker sword flares, fully active by the time I notice the Process. The alternate twilight world of green descends around the white enemy. Tracers draw themselves as she pulls the sword out of its hiding place, a plan already forming on the ground.

Plans complete, she activates the Turn.

In the real world, she simply disappears from view.

Only coincidence will help the public spot her as she reappears, behind the white creep spying on us.

Maybe I shall name all of them Creep, in honor of this one.

The white anomaly reacts, turning as it throws itself to one side. But it is out of time. It just does not know that yet.

An unspoken command flows through the handle. I feel my harnessed essence shiver, my trapped soul flare.

A blue flare of light escapes the broad blade. Flying true, it pierces the four legged creep square in the middle of its teardrop body. The blast continues beyond the target, dissipating in an empty spot on the road, an empty spot between vehicles in the traffic.

Well. I wouldn't say my personality is piercing, but it fits.

The Creep staggers. If only it is this easy.

Yeah, yea. I know. But I say nothing. She knows. We've met Processes before.

Another flare of energy, a burning mix of orange and red. It bursts into an explosion as the sword crashes onto the ground, causing a wave of destructiveness. It reaches the Creep, spinning it over, stunning it.

She certainly is stunning.

I let the sword harness me one more time. The alley turns blue once more. And it is done.

The Tinker swords glows, then burns. Circuitry traces bright on the blade. The centerpiece orb recessed into the thick blade twinkles.

Time resumes.

Traffic screeches, reacting too late to the bolts earlier. Someone screams.

Someone else screams, pointing at us…

… no. Not at us. Not at us at all.

"Paige!" I shout, "Behind you! Back Back BackBackbackbackback!"

She does not look behind. She does not question. She trusts me instead, dashing back into the stopped traffic.

"Jerk! You big Jerk! Using one of your buddies as bait, will you!?"

A huge shell of a Process bursts out of the alleyway, tearing gorges onto both walls with its bulk as it charges us. Its comically simple body of an orb of white with a red crystal insert supports the three smooth domes making its upper body. Two 'arms' sprout out from the sides below the domes, each of them a thick a multi-segmented piston ending with a spike. They pound onto the floor, creating a visible effect of white and red.

Well, I know _exactly_ what to name it.

"Not yet! Halfway there!" I shout as she clears the other side of the street and dashes along the suddenly empty sidewalk. "Dodge left!"

She narrowly avoids the pickup flipped over by the Jerk.

Pausing, she turns. I feel the tug on my self.

"Oh no," I start, "Don't."

The Jerk pulls out of the hole of traffic it just made in the roadway. It turns, facing us.

"The time to charge up without a Turn is too long!"

It starts to pound the ground again, the two stumpy legs moving the bulk towards us.

"Paige…"

A mailbox in the Jerk's way disappears, flattened in one blow.

"Run! Back up! You're cutting it too close…"

The store beside us loses its window as the Jerk's explosions shatters the glass.

"Paige!"

Another piercing bolt of blue lashes out.

It does not even stagger the Process.

But it does not matter. The twilight world has descended.

We win.

The Jerk just does not know it yet.


	5. Start() 5x

**Start()**

**5.x**

The hall was perfect. Pairs of paintings hang on its walls on each side, exactly at the same intervals along their walls. The potted plants were placed exactly a third of the distance from the main doors, pruned or changed daily into a perfect oval shape. Every surface was spotless. Every piece of furniture having a symmetrical pair, except for a bowl placed just so on that table.

A person can be forgiven for thinking there were tricks being played by mirrors in this room.

That same person would be taught to respect this beauty in the next few minutes, or die, if he was lucky. And the reason would be the man seated on the large well-oiled mahogany desk that was the centerpiece of this room.

He wasn't particularly threatening, or even large. The mask with the curling overlapping bands of dark metal trimmed in silver was the only physical indication he was of any threat. He was also… neat. Everything that was him, his clothes, his chair, table and room, everything he could see.

He even polished and cleaned his clothing before any item in his schedule without fail.

But somehow, he was a presence, a forceful personality amplifying his size out of all semblance of reality.

Accord was a villain, and it showed.

There was a buzz, exactly on the dot of the second hand crossing the vertical. A voice, sharp and clipped, delivered precisely the information and nothing more. "A folder came. May I deliver it?"

Accord replied by pressing the intercom's buzzer.

The doors opened, both doors moving at exactly the same speed, stopping at the same spot. It took exactly 23 steps for Accord's secretary to reach his desk, and another 23 steps for her to exit the room.

Almost 20 seconds later, Accord was alone once more in his room, with a newly deposited manila envelope on his desk. He waited five seconds before he opened the document, noting with distaste the counter-clockwise direction used on the string to seal the flap.

Inside was two pieces of paper. A typed report, and a black and white photograph.

Inside the photograph was a woman. A beautiful woman sprawled on the street, leaning against a bent lamppost.

The woman was wearing a business suit a size too big for her, under which was what appeared to be a torn and dirty but expensive dinner dress. Her hair was nearly white in the photograph, and it was decorated with feathers in a plumage which would have been beautiful if tended to. Which it was not.

Beyond and around her was a scene of destruction, the pulverized walkway decorated with flipped cars, storefronts and sidewalk amenities bent, shattered and cracked, all manners of debris smashed and scattered about.

All the mess, the unmananged beauty, it would have irritated Accord to no end, if not for the object the woman was holding and leaning against her shoulder.

"The Transistor." He exhaled.

In five minutes, the report was read and absorbed. Accord closed his eyes, feeling his powers getting to work.

The more complex a problem, the more likely he would find a solution. And find it he did.

A piece of paper was retrieved. A pen was selected, carefully removed from its meticulously arranged peers. A buzzer was pressed, at the bottom of the half minute.

He would write a message in 45 seconds, five simple instructions with a complexity all out of odds behind them. His secretary would reach his desk just in time to pick it up nearly immediately, and have the message typed into an email in less than five minutes.

Coil would probably ask for a large fee.

Accord would give it freely.

After all, the Transistor was his.

And he wanted it back above all.


	6. Fate() 6

**Fate()**

**6.0**

She's asleep now.

Went out like someone switched off a light.

Can't blame her. Busy day.

Terrifying day.

If I still have a body, I would probably will do the same.

If I have a body.

Damn me for my reminder.

Can't walk up to her. Can't comfort her. Can't hold her in my arms. Can't wipe her tear-streaked face clean.

Can't kiss her.

Not the first time I hate my current situation. And I guess not the last.

Still stings every single time.

Can't sleep too.

Which is perfect, usually. I can act a sentry as she sleeps.

Not this time. This isn't the wild wilderness. Or a dirty alley in a dark corner. Or a bench in a park. Or any other spot wide open to attack by animals, and people-shaped animals.

Motel room's dirty, smelly and falling apart. But it's cheap. And there's an implied safety here.

Implied. I hope the limits of this room holds true. Any danger will hidden until they're already in here. And I can't look through the walls.

I know. I tried.

Paige's asleep. I'm stuck in a mockery of a weapon. Nobody and nothing to pass the time with.

So for the first time since we ran, since I got into this prison, I have nothing to do.

This sucks...

Oh wait. I feel that.

My prison's not empty.

I'm inside, of course. But there're others with me.

Let's see now.

I stretch out metaphorically. I reach out, an odd indescribable feeling. With my consciousness, I explore my confines.

Hey, here's a list. How convenient. I read the top entry.

Marquis

A nobleman of hereditary rank? Why does that name seem so familiar?

I read the next few entries.

…

Gavel

Crane

Ingenue

Perdition

Ling

Yi

Teacher

…

Just some random words. It doesn't even seem to be arranged properly in any order.

…

Butcher

…

Wait, isn't that also the name of a…

…

Black Kaze

…

I pause. I realize. These are not random words in a list. This is a list of parahumans. Capes, people with powers.

Also, the names themselves. The people they represent. I begin to suspect.

I browse on, skimming the list.

…

Blasto

Acidbath

Lab Rat

…

Valefor

Lustrum

String Theory

…

Glaistig Uaine

…

The latest name settles it.

This is not just any group of capes; I do not recognize all the names here, but I recognize enough. These are the names of capes sent to the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center. The inaccessible one-way prison managed by the most powerful tinker in the world, Dragon.

I know. I've done my research.

Had to do it at the time.

I couldn't let Paige get a one way ticket into that hell.

I read on.

…

Lung

Ash Beast

Ablaster

Sleeper

…

Blasphemy of Fate

Blasphemy of Time

Blasphemy of Agency

…

Moord Nag

Sun Tze

Heartbreaker

…

And I stop. I am stunned.

I reread the latest names again.

Hey Paige, your name's in here.

And so is mine.

Curious. I most certainly isn't one of them.

A thought comes to me. An idea. And it doesn't let go.

I keep repeating, this tinker device is a prison, a cage of my soul.

What if… this parody of a sword _IS_ the Birdcage?

The more I think of it, the more the clues seem to fit.

But… something's wrong.

The way we encountered them, acquired this.

It doesn't match.

There's no way a villain will get hold of this device.

And nobody loses something like this.

Not something this important. Not without a fight. Not without a crater in the ground.

I stop my thoughts. Something's happening.

She stirs, awakening. She has forgotten to close the drapes, and the morning sunlight is punishing her for that mistake.

Has it been this long already?

Well, something to think about later.

"Hey sleepyhead. The sun's shining in your eyes already. Wakie wakie."

She smiles, an expression as radiant as the sunlight. And then she throws the moth-bitten pillow at my prison.

Another thought crosses my mind. Not the first time, and I guess not the last.

Well, what I did. It is totally worth it.


	7. Fate() 7

**Fate()**

**7.0**

We make it out of the garnish front door as the morning wore off, an excellent example of the neighborhood. There's no real reason to check out this early. Guess the motel's cheapness holds as many minuses as the plusses.

At least she had time to clean up. Been a long time since her last. Running from everyone does that to you.

"Hey, Paige. There's a park to your right. We can spend some time there. Feed the pigeons, enjoy the sun. You know, relax a bit."

She looks to the side, pondering.

"You can use some," I push my point.

She nods agreement, her walking direction changing. We pause at the entrance, the path splitting in three directions, a graffiti filled signboard pointing out the directions.

We choose the forest route.

Trees line both sides of the twilight path, a carpet of golden leaves forming a carpet at their bases. Their large canopies form a ceiling against the sun, holding in the fresh, cool morning air. We walk on wordlessly, meandering without purpose. Occasionally, I point out a sight or two, and she stops to smell the roses.

It is enjoyable.

As all things do, the path ends.

There is still a little time to while away before we have to go to the Palanquin, to see if Gregor is in.

She eyes another path this one towards the picnic fields. The field of grass is spotty at places, but it isn't too bad. Occasional trees break the monotony, as ill-managed as the spotty grass. Still, the unkept nature has an unexpected beauty to it.

There's a seat, nearby, under a tree. She reaches it, poking at it with one arm beforehand. Finding it sturdy, she takes out the broadsword, sits, and lays the tinker device across her laps. Wriggling herself into comfort, she stretches her arms along the top of the seat's shoulder-high back too.

Together, we watch a father and son play catch. The kid is obviously too young for the activity. He fumbles an easy catch, chasing the rolling ball with the awkwardness of the recently walking. The return throw falls way too short of the adult.

Yet we can feel the unbridled joy from both players as the male picks up the ball, and then the child, twirling both in the air.

She smiles at their antics. A laugh escapes her lips.

The sun is warm but not hot, a nice feeling against the skin where it shines through what little leaves remains. A cool breeze makes itself known, a gentle touch of moving air in slight gusts. The day continues lazily, drowsily…

I barely see the flicker in the forest in time.

My shout of warning turns her head.

A hole the size of her palm appears just below her right elbow.

She lets out a startled yelp as twilight descends.

We're under attack.


End file.
